


The Curtains Are Falling

by Varaen



Series: Emancipation Suite [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Council of Elrond, GFY, Gen, I hate the piped tags but I hate the Sindarin names more, Rivendell | Imladris, We will all suffer together, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varaen/pseuds/Varaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even with an additional participant, the Council of Elrond still happens in almost the same manner. Afterwards, an old widow has some advice for the Nine Walkers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curtains Are Falling

It was not often that Elrond called upon her to attend a council meeting. He knew Rossaen preferred the privacy many old Noldor enjoyed in Imladris, but she soon understood the necessity of her presence at this gathering. There were few who had a greater knowledge about objects of Power, none of them living east of the sea.

“This Ring must be the most convoluted work of Power that I have ever seen. It is not a tool, or even a weapon, but a physical extension of its maker’s will. A tether to the physical plane, and a focus for His power. No mortal could wield it against His purpose, and I know few elves who might. Already, it is expanding its influence and twisting our intentions.”

“And what would a maid know of such matters?”

The scathing tone with which Boromir expressed his doubt did not surprise her. Like most of Elrond’s councilors, Rossaen had not been introduced to their guests, planning only to observe, and advise in private. In addition, she was well aware of the narrow gender roles many humans believed in.

“I am a loremaster, young man. Items such as this happen to be my field of study. I might even -” She circled the pedestal on which the ring lay once, observing it closely but careful not to touch it. “No. To unravel the spells of binding is beyond my skills. In Orodruin this abomination has been made, and only there can it be unmade. May the Valar help us all.”

She sat back down next to Erestor as the discussion continued. A few desperate propositions were made, to cast the Ring into the sea or give it into the safekeeping of Tom Bombadil, because none of the elves present wanted to contemplate the need to go to Mordor until Elrond forced them to.

Boromir delighted in emphasizing the looming threat of Mordor, seemingly unaware that the councilors of Elrond had fought in the host of Gil-Galad against Sauron in the Second Age, some had seen worse in the First Age and even young Legolas had witnessed the twisted enchantments in his own home. They were not fearful faced with the unknown as the mortal thought, but rather cautious in the face of a known peril. When Boromir claimed that it could not be done with ten thousand men, Rossaen was tempted to remind him of the multitude of heroes in the First Age had had fought single handedly against Morgoth or one of his Umaiar, but she had learned not to draw attention to her intimate knowledge of that time.

A loud and chaotic discussion broke out after that, probably amplified by the presence of the Ring, but mostly an expression of the distrust between the races. Rossaen was close to despair when even Lothvaen and Minuial joined the general unrest, until Frodo silenced them all with a simple sentence.

“I will take it.”

That silenced the entire gathering more effectively than most of the things Rossaen had contemplated. As one, they turned their attention to the young hobbit.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor," he reiterated, and continued, "though, I do not know the way.”

It did not surprise Rossaen to see Gandalf volunteer to help Frodo, nor that others were eager to follow that example. Hobbits had something about them that made them especially sympathetic and well liked.

“I can neither guide you nor guard you, but I will do everything in my power to ease your path,” she chimed in. Seeing the questioning frown on Frodo’s face, she explained further. “Your advantage lies in stealth and secrecy. As you can see, I am neither. But I can draw Thauron’s attention away from you by doing something he will expect, like crossing the Hithaeglir with a party large enough that he will think we carry the Ring with us. That should ease your path until he uncovers our ruse, if he does at all.”

At that point, Elrond concluded the meeting to deliberate the volunteers in a private council with his closest advisors, and much besides. Rossaen attended none of these meetings. Instead, she met the old Noldorin warriors that had accumulated in Imladris over time. Even those that had abandoned the sword for more peaceful pursuits had something to contribute to her war party. Old tabards and banners were brought forth from the bottom of many storage chests, ancient armor and weapons polished to a shine. Their presence and continued survival had never been a secret, per se, but rather one of the many things that were not spoken about openly. Now that the need was dire, most agreed that the silent conformance had to be a thing of the past. Ancient secrets and older grudges would serve them neither in war, nor in Valinor.

 

* * *

 

Two months passed in bustling activity until everyone was ready to depart. As dawn was breaking, controlled chaos dominated most of the courtyard. Rossaen had summoned a respectable number of soldiers, and the Nine Walkers were set to depart the evening of the same day, under the cover of night. They had come with most of the household to watch the cavalry depart.

Boromir recognized the rude red-haired she-elf from the council standing next to Lord Elrond, his chief counsellor and two more elves with the same black hair. All of them except for their Lord wore plate armor with silvered edges over glittering mail and red gambesons. That was a colour scheme he saw repeated by many of the elven soldiers milling around, although there were some in gold and blue, a few in bronze and white and even one in gold and red that Boromir recognized as Glorfindel, the marshal of Rivendell.

Despite their different colours, they all had the same emblem embroidered on their cloaks, an eight-pointed star that Boromir did not recognize. The same pattern was repeated on the pennants and banners in a more elaborate and decorated style. He felt transported through time, to the great battles of the Second Age he had studied. The host of Gil-Galad must have had cavalry units that looked similar, even though Boromir believed that they had been described as gold and blue.

“Strider, what do the colours mean?” he overheard one of the hobbits ask.

“Those are family colours, and a sign of allegiance to a family or ruler. Blue and gold are the colours of the house of Fingolfin and was used by his descendants as High Kings of the Noldor, and bronze and white show allegiance to Finarfin. The warriors of Rivendell usually ride out in the purple and bronze of Lord Elrond. They must have a good reason to ride under a different banner now.”

The ranger fell silent then, a fond smile curving his lips as he watched the elves. During his stay in Rivendell, Boromir had learned that the Dúnedain rangers and the elves of Rivendell were close allies, but the friendship their chief held for them seemed to go beyond that.

As the group drew nearer, Boromir strained his ears to satisfy his curiosity and try to overhear something of what they were talking, but it turned out that they did not speak the Sindarin he had heard them speaking before among themselves. The cadence reminded him of the Quenya poetry Faramir liked to read aloud, but, being less scholarly inclined than his younger brother, Boromir had never bothered to learn a language that had allegedly fallen out of use thousands of years ago. He caught only the last few words and understood none of them.

“Araninkë.”

“Atarinyat. Nai eleneli caluvante tielyanna.”

“Násië.”

Their tone and body language was unreadable, as elves were wont to be, but Aragorn’s facial expressions read almost like an open book. It seemed that this was the elvish equivalent of a tearful and clinging farewell, but expressed in a way that was invisible to Boromir. After reaching out their right hands with a bow, the last warriors mounted their horses, the red-headed woman and one of her black-haired companions up front, Erestor with the other black-haired elf behind them, holding two long spears with crimson pennants.

“Nortealme!”

On that command, the whole squadron set into motion as one well trained whole. When the last rider had passed out of sight, their audience turned towards the main house and slowly returned to their previous activities.

“I was unaware there were so many Noldor remaining in Imladris that Quenya would still be spoken,” Legolas remarked in a emphatically nonchalant tone. In the sudden silence that followed the earlier commotion, his voice carried across the entire courtyard.

“We have always been here, young prince,” came a soft voice from aside. Boromir had not noticed the woman standing there, and judging by their reactions, neither had any of the others. “We have grown rather adept at hiding in plain sight. Elrond was kind enough to offer us a new home.”

As she spoke, Boromir noticed how bright her eyes were, unnaturally so for their deep hue of turquoise, wondering how he had not noticed before.

“You are _lachend_ ,” Legolas said with a gasp. Flame-eyed was indeed an apt description for the way her eyes seemed to burn from within.

“I am, yes. Shall I call you _moriquendë_ next, so that we may air grievances from Ages past?” she asked with a bitter smile. “We are all _elda_ . Or _quendë_ in the oldest sense, at least,” she concluded with a look at the mortals.

“Peace, Almarien. I don’t think Legolas knows _lachend_ used to be an insult,” Aragorn said.

“Ever the mediator, are you, Estel?”, she replied.

“You taught me the value of peace, and to foster it at all times. You should be proud I took them to heart,” Aragorn said.

“Lady Almarien, please accept my sincerest apologies. It was not my intention to offer you insult and I regret that I did so unknowingly,” Legolas then offered with a bow. Lady Almarien accepted with a regal nod that would have done a queen proud.

“It has been a while since I was called Lady,” she said with a tinkling laugh. “Call me Almarien, and Almarien only, young one. I forsook my titles a long time ago.”

Again, Boromir was astounded how elves regularly succeeded in answering one question and simultaneously raising a whole lot of new ones. He had thought himself accustomed to this infuriating habit after spending two months as their guest, but Almarien seemed to take it to extremes on purpose.

“Come. We can sit in the Hall of Fire and I will try and answer your questions. I can see that you have many.”

 

* * *

 

This early in the day, the Hall of Fire was empty and the hearth cold. Almarien led them to an alcove that was almost invisible from the outside and bade them to sit.

“You may have noticed that the house of Elrond holds many secrets. Not all of them are mine to tell, but I will try to satisfy your curiosity,” she began.

“You saw correctly. I came east with my husband’s family and our son before the first sunrise. If my presence surprises you, it only shows that we did well when the Second Age began and we scoured our survival from history. The warriors among us joined Gil-Galad’s banner when he marched, but Rossaen convinced them that the old insignia is better suited to our most recent purpose. I can think of few things that would draw Thauron’s attention faster than the old banners of red and silver, and none of them are at our disposal.”

“You say much and still tell us nothing, woman. Why are those colours so important?”

Impatience was turning him curt and less polite than he would like, but Boromir had never met a human that could beat around the bush like an elf, and not even the most infuriating and obnoxious lords of Gondor could hold a candle to this elf.

“Red and silver is the coat of arms of Fëanáro, who passed those colours on to four of his children and through them to my own son Tyelperinquar, whom you know as Celebrimbor.”

Absolute silence followed that announcement, until Almarien broke it with tinkling laughter.

“Your faces! Lovely. I haven’t had this much fun in centuries,” she said.

“Don’t look so surprised. It is easy for an elf to disappear from mortal memory, and the Sindar never really paid attention to us as individuals beyond the seven sons of Fëanor. We scoured our names from the few records that survived the ruin of Beleriand, and the few who might have recognized our names or faces had little interest in bringing up ancient grievances. The rest is willful ignorance and a pinch of subterfuge.”

“You are a kinslayer,” Legolas said flatly.

“If you wish to frame it that way. Yet your grandfather killed my husband, but you don’t see me up in arms about that, Thranduilion.”

She spat the last word out like a curse.

“I thought you did not want to bring up ancient grudges?” Aragorn asked, bemused.

“I had not planned to. But neither did I expect a Sinda to hold grudges for longer than the Valar. Restitution is made. Ever since Rossaen was returned, we have had hope that the evil we have wrought can be unmade, and our exile lifted. But I will not bore you further with the woes of an old widow. I wished to advise you. I lived in Ost-in-Edhil when Thauron the Deceiver veiled himself in fair form and turned the peoples of Eregion against each other. The Ring will whisper false promises and test your resolve. Stay true to your heart and always remember that you are not alone. You are Nine chosen, and united the Free People stand stronger than apart.”

Almarien left them alone after that warning, but they saw her again in the evening, when she joined Elrond to bid them farewell. After her impromptu history lesson, they understood only to well why Elrond bade them to swear no oaths but rather hold their allegiance voluntarily. That was one tragedy that needed no encore.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> araninkë (Q) - little king  
> atarinyat (Q) - my two fathers  
> nai eleneli caluvante tielyanna (Q) - may the stars light your way  
> násië (Q) - may it be so  
> nortealme (Q) - we ride  
> lachend (S) - flame-eyed, describing the elves of aman whose eyes were shining with the light of the Two Trees  
> moriquendë (Q) - dark-elf, pejorative for elves who did not complete the journey to Aman  
> elda (Q) - of the stars => an elf  
> quendë (Q) - person cabable of speech, originally a self-identifier for all elves, but literally including all speaking sentients
> 
> Lothvaen is someone else's alternate name for Figwit/Melpomaen and makes more sense as a purely Sindarin name. I'll credit the original author once I remember who it was/find the fic again from where I borrowed the idea.
> 
> I am [varaenthefallen](http://varaenthefallen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, follow me for headcanons and pretty reblogs. My askbox is always open.


End file.
